


Substitution

by poisontaster



Category: Dawson's Creek, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Substitution, Underage Sex, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-30
Updated: 2008-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can't have his brother, but he can have someone who looks like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitution

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be part of a longer work, but the rest of it never got written and this stands just fine on its own.

Sam was fourteen when he lost his virginity.

He didn't tell anyone and as far as Dean's concerned, Sam didn't manage to close the deal for another two and a half years, prompting a lot of brotherly ribbing and even more completely annoying attempts to shove Sam at any female within a hundred yard radius. Sometimes Sam thinks he finally did it—with Candida Feldspar—just to get Dean off his back.

If Sam has his way, Dean's never going to know about that first, real time.

Because that one's Dean's fault too.

Or… Maybe not. Fault is such a strange concept, impossible to really trace, a serpent that eats its own tail.

This is how it goes:

Sam dreams.

When the dreams become too much, he goes to—finds—the bar.

There is always a bar.

Most of the towns they go to it doesn't pay to advertise, but after a while, he develops a kind of radar. It's not always right—he's gone home with a few bloody noses that he's blamed on fights with other kids—but most of the time his instinct is dead on. He doesn't know what it is, exactly. A way of holding yourself, a quiet look in the eyes…who knows.

But it always ends pretty much the same way, with Sam on his knees or pushed over a car or pressed against a wall until the weight of someone else's cock—in his hand, his mouth, his ass—drives the demons out, an exorcism of the flesh.

He likes it best when they put him on his knees or belly. It lets him get lost somewhere inside his head, because let's face it: this is not love, it's commerce.

He has a type, solid and broad-shouldered. The whiff of a leather jacket, a gaudy flash of freckles, the winter gleam of a plain silver band…Sam gets so hard so fast it makes him dizzy. He's not stupid. He knows why. There's no denial at work here, other than the bone-deep resolution that _Dean must never know._

Never know that his baby brother fucks boys.

Never know that his baby brother fucks boys that look like _him_ , or as close to it as Sam can approximate.

Never know— _Jesus and Virgin Mary, please never ever know_ —that Sam does it because he loves his brother. Loves him in ways brothers shouldn't. And loves him too much to burden him with this.

These are the things Sam thinks about.

This is what he's thinking about when he spreads his legs and feels C.J. fit in the gap between his knees. Sam let C.J. pick him up at a Gas-n-Sip near the college. He told C.J. his name is Richie; C.J. didn't tell him what the initials stand for and Sam didn't ask. C.J.'s hair is too dark, a little too long, but Sam's learned to compensate. The freckles, sparser than Dean's, are a plus.

The woman singing on the radio is telling Sam she's not an addict and Sam chuffs a soft laugh at the irony while C.J.'s hands map the curves of Sam's ass, the bow line of his spine, the jutting bones of his ribs and hips. There is wonder in C.J.'s touch and, through the ache in his throat, Sam thinks C.J. must not fuck boys very often. He suspects not. It'd taken a lot of Sam's—considerable, at this point—skill to play dumb-but-encouraging long enough for C.J. to reel him in. Sam suspects C.J. doesn't get laid much at all.

Sam can't help the sharp arch of his back when C.J. fucks his cock into him. There really wasn't enough prep or lube and the…shock, for lack of a better word, of penetration always takes some adjustment at the best of times.

It's sick and it's shameful, but Sam always wonders if this is what it would really be like, imagines what Dean would be like. Whether he'd be rough, hasty and impatient, the way he is with school work, or research or traffic…or whether he'd be slow and thorough, touching Sam like his fingertips glide over their weapons, smooth and reverent, smutted with the fluids and dusts of their care.

"Sorry…sorry." C.J.'s hands are everywhere, but jerky, spastic, like he doesn't know what to do with them anymore. Too much of his weight is on Sam and it burns, in his ass, his knees, his hard-locked elbows.

Carefully, Sam reaches back and smoothes the best he can along the ridge of C.J.'s hip. "S'okay. Just…God…" Sam shifts, trying to find the good angle inside him. C.J. feels bigger than he looked, though Sam could really say that about every guy he's fucked. He tries not to do it too often, the need to burn it out of him conflicting with the disgust that he _needs_ to do it at all.

_Better than the alternative._

Sam and C.J. negotiate flesh and position until Sam can handle the overwhelming feel of a man inside him, until the pressure turns sweet and the fullness a tease. Sam buries his face in the pillow, ignoring the residual scent of C.J. in the linen.

Sam feels bad about the way he's been thinking about C.J.; it's another one of those things that happens when the inevitable comparisons to Dean crop up. The truth is, the guy's not a bad lay when he gets past his initial nervousness, big cock rubbing all the right ways and his clever hands doing the rest, working Sam's nipples and cock like they've been together a dozen times instead of just this once. It's good—better than good—and Sam comes gasping, convulsing around C.J.'s still hard dick.

Sam moans but doesn't protest when C.J. maneuvers him onto his side, still fucking in slow, deep strokes that dance up and down Sam's spinal column like electricity. He's never been taken like this; it's more intimate than he likes to get, with C.J. curved around him, kissing him.

"So good, so pretty," C.J. murmurs and he sounds like it's hurting. "You feel so good on my dick."

Sam doesn't know how he feels about being called 'pretty', especially the way C.J. says it, but he's trembling all the same, still strung out on his first orgasm and being fucked toward another and C.J. keeps _touching him_ , no longer tentative in the least. Sam's skin crackles, sensitive from head to toe. It's not usually like this. They're not usually this…nice.

 _Wait,_ Sam says, _stop, stop…_

Or he means to. He really means to.

C.J. cradles Sam's cock, smiling against Sam's shoulder as it lengthens and fills again. "Yeah. Like that. Let me…oh, fuck, let me…"

Sam thinks there isn't much he wouldn't let C.J. do, right at this moment.

His orgasm, when it comes, hurts; pain among the pleasure. What hurts more, though, is the way it wrings Dean's name out of him, longing and shame and the horrible perversion of all his love _should_ be.

Sam's limbs seem tangled in sand as he tries to disengage himself from C.J., dull, stupid and slow, burned through with embarrassment. C.J. won't let him go, though, and Sam doesn't want to hurt him.

"Hey," C.J. says gently—far more gently than Sam deserves. "Hey, it's okay, okay? Don't freak out on me."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I… Jesus." He pulls away enough to roll to the edge of the bed, put his feet on the floor. He's breathing too hard and his hair hangs down into his eyes.

"No…hey." C.J. sits next to him, slings an arm around Sam's shoulders. "I've been there, you know?"

Another new situation; it feels weird to be naked with this guy that just fucked him, talking. Talking like they're friends. Like this is even going to go past tonight. Sam doesn't do repeats. By the time he needs this again, needs someone, they'll be long gone. Still, it makes him uneasy, prickling at his skin like cheap, coarse wool. He wants to get up and go but guilt and inertia glue him in place.

"I know," C.J. repeats, like he has _any_ fucking idea. "It's hard when you don't know. When you're not sure. But…" He pauses and Sam squirms. "Have you ever thought about telling this Dean guy how you feel? Maybe…maybe it won't be as bad as you think."

 _How do you know what I think?_ Sam wants to demand. Instead, he ducks his shoulder, letting C.J.'s arm fall away. "It's not like that," he says finally, unwillingly, just wanting C.J. to stop _looking at him_ like that.

C.J. makes a face at him and Sam has seen that face too many times on Dean and their Dad not to know what it means: _Oh, kid, you're too young._

He's almost seventeen. And C.J. is just another ringer, standing in for someone else, someone Sam can't have, can never have. The familiar resentment churns in Sam's stomach, dispelling some of the afterglow.

"How do you know?"

Sam jerks his clothes up from the floor. There's come on his belly and thighs and cock and there's lube in his stretched hole that makes walking interesting, but Sam doesn't care. If he had a mom, maybe she would notice, but once Sam was old enough to bathe himself Dad and Dean have only given cursory notice to Sam's grooming anyway. "I know."

C.J. offers to give him a ride home, but Sam doesn't want C.J. knowing where he lives, doesn't want to see him again. It's over and it's as much a success and a failure as it ever is.

It's a long walk back to the motel. By the time he gets there, Sam's warm with exertion and cold right through to the bones with everything else. Neither Dad nor Dean is back. Dad's out on the hunt and Sam doesn't expect him for a couple days. Dean… Dean's probably out finding his own entertainment, dumb as rocks and with good tits.

Sam drinks glass after glass of water until that thought—the thought of Dean fucking—doesn't turn him sick anymore. He coaxes the hottest water he can out of the aging shower and washes until the bar of soap is only a sliver and then it's into his pajamas and into bed.

He's almost asleep when Dean finally clatters in, clumsy and singing under his breath. Sam tenses up but he doesn't open his eyes, wondering how drunk Dean is, wondering if….

Sometimes. Sometimes, Dean…

The smell hits Sam like a wall when Dean bends over him, bar and sweat and sex. His stomach rumbles again, rebellious, and it's an effort not to jump when Dean's hand settles warmly on Sam's forehead, smoothing his hair back.

When he was little, Sam used to imagine their mother would've touched him like that, soothed away his many bad dreams. Now, Sam can't imagine anyone's hand but Dean's.

"G'night, Sammy." Dean probably thinks he's being quiet. Sam doesn't care, hope flickering like candle flame inside his chest. Dean leans down and Sam holds his breath as his brother's dry, rough mouth brushes his forehead. It burns.

It feels like benediction. It feels like forgiveness.

It feels like love.


End file.
